


The Larabee Initiative

by farad



Series: Larabee Initiative [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Larabee Initiative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover, at least in timeline and concept, with the Marvel Universe's "Agents of Shield", media verse, but also conceptually with the comics verse.  This parent story is gen and unfinished at this posting (AND UNBETA-ED for which I apologize and hope to correct as soon as I finish it).  It started as a short work for a Mag7 Daybook stocking (2016) and turned into a monstrosity, so the early posting is because of the stocking deadline. </p><p> </p><p>As of this posting, there are also two slash stories, which effectively continue from this story on alternate Earths.  If you know Marvel, you understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Larabee Initiative

“ _It's a sci-tech conference, not one of the big ones, they're not that brave yet, but they'll be recruiting. SouthWest Tech will be there, demoing one of their new 'peacemakers'. What's more important than their tech, though, is their people. They have a number of our former people working for them, and we need them back.”_

  


“Leave him alone!” The woman's voice was hard and loud, one used to giving commands.

  


But these men were accustomed to taking orders, usually from their own, and they weren't intimidated by her. One of them, the leader it seemed to Chris, did deign to answer her though.

  


“We just want to talk to him,” he said, smiling. But his smile wasn't reassuring, nor was the way two of his men had their hands on a third man, a tall African American who was also vocal about his situation. 

  


“I've said all I had to say to you!” he snarled, trying to pull free. “I don't like you or your organization – and I have no intentions of working for you, no matter what you offer! Get your hands off me!” He tried to step away, but several other men stepped around him, blocking him. The third man was tall, and muscular, but the men who surrounded him were more so, and from the look of them, they carried weapons hidden beneath their dark jackets. 

  


“We just want to talk, Dr. Jackson,” the leader said, “just to clear up some of these misconceptions you have about who we are and what we need your fine weapon for.” Two more men were pushing through the crowd, but they were dressed like the first three. 

  


There was a group of people gathered around, but no one other than the blonde woman seemed willing to step in. Chris frowned as the men around Jackson started moving, pushing the doctor along despite his attempts to step away.

  


“You can't just take him!” the woman said, trying to push through to Jackson. But the leader reached out an arm, blocking her and pushing her away at the same time. She stumbled over someone's foot and went down on to her butt in the middle of the large room. As the men pushed past, Jackson calling out his resistance from within, she said, “Are you people just going to let this happen?”

  


Chris looked past her, to catch a pair of blue eyes that were looking at him. They belonged to a slender man dressed in shades of tan and the vest of the catering company. Chris had noticed him before, pushing a carpet sweeper around the food table. His hair was long, pulled back in a ponytail, and his face was stubbled in what Chris had assumed was the fashion of the day. He had seemed innocuous enough, another of the Generation X kids who worked in menial labor to avoid college and careers.

  


But that gaze was something else. Sharp, knowing, and at the same time, asking. This was no Gen X-er, this was someone who had been around and who recognized Chris for what he was just by looking at him. The young man no longer wore the apron, nor pushed the carpet sweeper. Instead, he was wearing a long tan jacket that appeared to be leather. More to the point, Chris suspected that in this desert environment, even here in this overly air-conditioned hotel, the jacket hid a wealth of weaponry that this man knew how to use. The question in those blue eyes was which side of the fence Chris was going to fall.

  


His own side of the fence was clear with the slight tilt of his head, after the group of men and their protesting kidnapee.

  


Chris hadn't intended to get involved. His orders, insofar as he thought of them as such, were clear.

  


But his conscience was equally as loud. There were reasons he had chosen to leave The Business, and now, with the profession imploding, he felt his conscience was more demanding than any loyalty to his old boss.

  


For the first time since he had arrived at this conference, he smiled, his feelings no longer mixed. One short nod answered the blue-eyed man before him, and they turned almost in unison and started across the room, following the group – and the woman who had gotten to her feet and was running along behind as well, calling out.

  


They fell into step together, and as they walked, Chris asked, “Don't suspect that the catering company's gonna be real happy with you getting involved.”

  


In his peripheral vision, he saw the other man grin. “Well, hell. I'm probably gonna get myself killed. Now I got to worry about a new job, too.”

  


Despite himself, Chris grinned, too.

  


The group had made it as far as the elevators where they had been forced to stop. The elevators here shared the universal disdain of all elevators for human intimidation. A group was gathered here as well, most standing well away from the men surrounding the doctor. The woman was also standing to one side, and while she was still beseeching the bystanders to help, she was no longer trying to take on the leader. Probably because he had finally produced a gun. He wasn't pointing it at anyone; instead he was pointing it toward the ceiling. But the threat was clear.

  


Chris and his companion arrived in time to hear the leader say, “We're just going to talk to him, and the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can all get back to the important business of this science conference. And possibly toward placing a big order with your company, so why don't you just leave it be?”

  


Without a discussion, Chris moved several steps to the right before he stopped. His companion had done the same, only to the left.

  


The leader turned at the movement and frowned, looking at them warily. “What the hell do you want?”

  


“Let him go,” Chris said, nodding toward Jackson. 

  


The leader stared at Chris then glanced to blue-eyed man who said, “Reckon y'alled be happier if you just walked away.”

  


The leader studied Chris' partner, then, shifting his feet a little, he rolled his shoulders back and smiled. The tension in the room was palpable now. Behind him, Chris heard movement as others felt the threat in the air and started to move away. “Not a chance, boys,” the leader said, his voice low and even as he glanced between Chris and Blue Eyes.

  


“Lot of folk around,” Chris said without taking his eyes off the man before him. “You sure you want to do this out here, in public? Won't really help your organization's image in the press.” 

  


“What image is that?” the man asks. “Nobody knows who we work for. We could be working for the other guys, the company in disfavor. You don't know that we're not.” His fingers tightened on the revolver he was holding up in the air. 

  


Chris pulled his back jacket open, showing the holstered pistol on his belt. He was aware of his companion doing the same, the tan coat opening to show a similar belt holster, but also a long gun, fitted against an internal seam. “I know enough,” he said.

  


The leader blinked, but at the same time, his arm dropped. Chris drew his revolver with practiced speed, aiming and shooting in the same instant. He was aware of the people behind him running and screaming, clearing the area, and he distantly wondered if they could get out of here before the police arrived.

  


But the bigger part of his attention was on the men around the doctor, most of whom had also drawn weapons of various types. But they weren't getting off many shots, most of them dropping as the man beside him worked the pump action on the long barreled weapon he was firing. It wasn't shooting bullets, though, nor was it shooting the knock-out pellets Chris' own revolver was firing. It was shooting some sort of wave of light that made the men drop their weapons as soon as the light touched them.

  


The bigger effect, though, was on the men themselves. As their weapons dropped from their hands, they scattered, running toward the exit doors for the stairs and the outside. The leader, holding his hand which was bleeding heavily from the knock-out pellet Chris had fired, yelled after them, trying to get them back.

  


“I got one!” someone yelled from behind Chris, charging past him and firing into the fleeing men. It was a young man, dark hair bouncing as he ran. Chris reached out quickly, smacking the gun down and stopping the young man's forward movement. 

  


“You don't shoot nobody in the back,” Chris said, meeting dark brown, surprised eyes. 

  


Before the kid could argue, though he sputtered out some nonsense, Chris looked around. It was over fast, the men who had kidnapped the doctor either gone or laying on the floor unconscious. One of the people who had been watching was moaning nearby, a blossom of red on his shirt sleeve, but he was being tended to by a couple of other bystanders.

  


The man who had come with him still held his long gun and was straightening from the defensive crouch into which he had dropped when the real bullets had started. He, too, was looking around, until he finally met Chris' gaze. He took a deep breath and nodded slightly.

  


Chris nodded back. “Name's Chris.”

  


“Vin Tanner,” the other man said. “Don't recall seeing you at one of these before. You new to the trade?”

  


Chris almost laughed at that, but he was interrupted by something moving quickly through the air in front of them, then there was a thud and a woman in the crowd, behind and to Chris' left, slumped to the floor.

  


“You two need to pay more attention,” Doctor Jackson snapped, rubbing one arm with one hand while twirling something that looked like a knife in the other. “Doubt she was playing nice like we are.” He walked past them toward the figure on the ground, and it was then that Chris noticed that the blonde woman was still standing in the background, watching. She hadn't fled like everyone else, but instead, she was looking at them, her head high. 

  


“That was an interesting knife,” Tanner said, turning to watch Jackson. 

  


The doctor leaned down next to the woman, pulling the knife-looking weapon from the tender flesh at the junction of her throat and shoulder. The man had talent, Chris realized, able to make a hit like that.

  


“Designed them myself,” the doctor said, distractedly. He was checking the vitals of the woman. “An instant but mild anesthetic, designed to incapacitate but not kill.”

  


“In development?” Tanner asked. 

  


Jackson nodded absently, patting the unconscious woman's shoulder. As he got back to his feet, he looked at Vin. “Ready for marketing. It's part of why we're here. Nobody's interested, though. I told Mary that here in the U.S., if it don't kill, it don't sell.”

  


“Thought those types were out already,” Chris said, noticing the blonde woman coming to join them. “What's different about this one?”

  


Jackson turned to him, one long eyebrow rising. “Good question,” he said, and though it should have sounded condescending, it didn't. It was more a statement of approval. “This one,” he said, holding out the weapon which looked more like a paring knife but with a much longer and finer tip, “has not only the anesthetic, but also a few things to minimize the damage. A mild coagulant to keep the blood from oozing and to heal the wound, an antibiotic to prevent infection, a muscle relaxant to aid in a relaxed awakening - “

  


“And interrogation?” Tanner asked, grinning. 

  


Jackson frowned, but before he could answer, the woman spoke up. “That is illegal, of course. A person not complete mental faculty's cannot be held accountable for what they say under the influence.”

  


“But they sure can tell you things that you need to know,” Tanner said with a shrug. “Reckon that's why those guys wanted to 'talk' to you?” 

  


Jackson drew in a breath, his wide forehead scrunched. “Figured it was because I was pretty outspoken about who we wouldn't sell it to – and that was them. But you're right. I didn't stop to think about why they would even be interested in buying it. Just figured they were trying to shut me up.”

  


“Easier ways to do that than making a public spectacle,” Tanner said, looking around. “You got something they want, Doc. Question is why they want it. You're right – it ain't their style, as we saw just now.”

  


he woman glared at him, her green eyes like ice. She straightened, as if ready for a fight, but this time, it was Jackson who cut her off. “Doesn't matter one way or the other, as it's not selling in this country. As I said from the start, this isn't going to sell here, where law enforcement is still controlled by cowboys and gunslingers who'd rather shoot to kill than get past their racism and hatreds.”

  


Chris glanced to Tanner who shrugged. Hard to argue the point, and the way Jackson said it, it was apparent that this was an often spoken statement. From the way the woman sighed, she, too, had heard it before. Behind her, the young man who had tried to help out in the fight was edging close, listening to what they were saying. It didn't make Chris happy that they were standing here with people they didn't know while the authorities were growing ever closer.

  


As if hearing the thought in his head, she looked at him. “I'm Mary Travis,” she said. “PR for SouthWest Tech. Nathan works for us. Thank you for what you did here. We owe you. Where did you come from?”

  


Chris glanced at Tanner who was looking back over his shoulder. People were gathering again, and the sound of sirens was growing ever louder. “Bar,” he said, looking around himself. Tanner caught his eye and nodded, turning to leave the way they had come.

  


“I'd like to talk to you two – wait,” she called as they started away. “Where are you going?” 

  


Without hesitating, he and Tanner said together, “Bar”.

  


Close behind them, Jackson snorted, but Chris observed that he coming along behind them.

  


The hotel was crowded, but they made their way through easily enough. They lost the woman, Mary, when she stopped to talk to someone in the crowd. The kid stopped with her. Chris was relieved at that; there was something about her that put him on edge, and he had enough to worry about with these two men.

  


“I'm thinking this might not be where we want to be when those boys in blue get here,” Tanner said softly. “I know a place a couple of blocks from here. Ain't much to look at, but it's got whiskey and beer.”

  


“My kind of place,” Chris said. “Lead on.” 

  


They exited through a door on the far side of the hotel's lobby just as the police entered through the front. Tanner led them down the side of the hotel for several blocks; none of them spoke as most of the passing vehicles had sirens blaring and lights flashing.

  


The bar was several blocks down, in an older building that had seen better days but was aging as gracefully as possible. Neon beer signs were bright in the windows, and Chris noticed that the window panes were actually clean, as if someone gave a damn about the place. The idea persisted as they pushed through the outer door and then through a second set of bat-wing doors that parted easily and without a squeak. The place smelled of beer and peanuts, but there was an underlying cleanliness to it. The tables, chairs, and bar stools were eclectically mismatched, but they were in good shape. There were people scattered around at various tables and at the polished wooden bar, and the bartender nodded as Tanner led the three of them to it.

  


“What can I get for you?” he asked as he reached into the cooler for a pint glass. 

  


Chris went for whiskey, the house brand, while Vin went for a draft beer and Jackson went for some sort of craft beer that had fruit in it. They settled at the bar, sipping quietly for a time as the adrenalin ebbed. Chris was aware of the noises around him, people talking, police cars and ambulance sirens in the distance – and then the door of the bar opening and closing. The mirror behind the bar was cracked in places and painted with a sort of lace pattern to make it look antique, but he could still tell the that the two men who came in were not familiar with the place.

  


Beside him, he felt Vin look into the mirror as well, then turn to look over his shoulder. The two men were moving toward them slowly. Their hands were at their sides, though, not threatening.

  


It was their appearance, though, that confused Chris. They were both dressed in jeans and plaid shirts, with cowboy boots and hats. They were also both Native Americans, each with long braided hair, one with two plaits that came down each side of his face, the other with one long plait down that was draped over one shoulder. Neither was young, though the one with the two plaits was younger than the one with the one long plait. Their faces were tanned and weathered, and the one with two plaits was darker, his skin more brown than red.

  


Not that Natives weren't common in this part of the country, but the fact that they were apparently looking for the three of them...

  


“We want to hire you.” 

  


Chris glanced around, wondering which of the three of them the Natives were talking to. Probably Jackson, as he was a doctor and Chris knew that medical service on the reservations was often lacking. Probably some emergency situation that they needed to find a doctor for, or the thought that they could appeal to his humanitarian nature.

  


But as he looked to Jackson, he found the man looking at him. Tanner was, too, and it was then that he realized that the Native man was speaking to him.

  


“Excuse me?” he asked. 

  


The man's lips twitched, perhaps in amusement, perhaps in annoyance. But he repeated his words more slowly and clearly. “We want to hire you.”

  


Chris stared at him. “Me? For what?”

  


“All of you,” the man said lifting one hand to indicate the three of them. “For protection.” 

  


The man behind him shook his head then stepped up next to the man who had been talking. “Allow us to explain,” he said. “We are Genizaros, from a small community own near Las Cruces. We are not many, and we have been fighting for recognition from the government.”

  


“Yeah, I remember reading something about that,” Tanner said softly. “Y'all got a mine nearby, right?”

  


The man who was speaking nodded. “Our people own it, from long ago, before your country came. Your government did not recognize us as natives – as they still do not. Thus we have no protection when we need it, not from the county or from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. We came here looking for people to help us with a problem. We are willing to pay you.”

  


He held out one fist, palm down and fingers closed, then slowly opened his fingers to show a golden rock.

  


“You want us to believe that's gold?” Dr. Jackson said, raising one eyebrow? His bald, dark-skinned head seemed to shine in the muted light of the bar. 

  


“It is,” the first man said defensively. 

  


“Is that what you're protecting?” Tanner asked, leaning back against the bar. 

  


The second man, Two Plaits, almost smiled. “No, it is not. The gold has mostly run out, and they do not want gold. We are protecting our families, from men who have come as of late to demand that we mine for them – not gold, but other things that they want, things that are underground near our mine, or so they think. They have told us that if we do not do as they want, they will harm our families, taking away our wives and children. They have said that they will report us to the authorities for abuse and for neglect. None of that is true, but they say that the authorities, especially in this state, will believe their word over ours.”

  


“And you think that's true,” Tanner said, his tone soft. “So what is it you think we can do? Don't reckon the authorities are gonna take our word – not mine, anyway. Can't rightly speak for the doc or Chris, here, but it don't make a lot of sense to me that you want us for that.” 

  


Two Plaits did grin at that. “No, that is not what we wish. We saw you back there, in the hotel. You are very fast.”

  


“And our weapons are state of the art,” Chris added, catching on to where this was going. “No loss of life which means it won't turn into a war if we can hold them off long enough.” 

  


The two Native men glanced at each other, then the second one said, “We do not think that it will take long. They are not men who seem to wish to move in. I – we think that they are on a schedule and have need of what they think we can get for them very quickly. They made their demands to us yesterday, and they expect to return next week to claim what we produce for them.”

  


“So you don't have a lot of time, and you don't plan to go digging for whatever it is that they want.” This was, again, from Jackson, but like Tanner, he, too, had softened his tone. 

  


“What they think is there is not there – just as there is no gold, there is nothing else. All of the mines around are played out for everything. As we tried to explain to them. We cannot give them what they want.” Two Plaits looked at each of them, meeting their eyes. Sincere in his statements and his belief. 

  


It could be a trap. These men had come looking for mercenaries, for people they could pay outside the scope of law enforcement to drive away predators that they were afraid to report to law enforcement.

  


But the idea that these predators had threatened the women and children resonated with him. While he himself would not have let other men do his fighting, he also knew that some men were smarter than he was, smart enough to realize when they were not up to a fight.

  


And from the sound of this, the men in question, these predators, were exactly who he had come to find.

  


“So how much are you offering?” he asked, thinking about the gold rock in the man's hand. The current price of gold was high, he knew, but he also knew that the three of them together were not going to be enough to stop a force of men who were desperate and had nothing to lose. 

  


One Plait gave a short nod. “We have had that gold appraised and it is worth $35,000. It is all we have left – it was the first ore taken from our mine, hundreds of years ago.”

  


“We have kept it in the common house,” Two Plaits said, holding it out once again. Slowly, he extended the ore toward Chris. 

  


Chris took it but still held it out as he asked, “How many men are we talking about?”

  


One Plait answered, “Would twenty men scare you?” Chris noticed that Two Plaits glanced at the other man questioningly, but he didn't say anything. 

  


Tanner grinned. “Hell, I was making $500 a week working for the catering service without anybody shooting at me.”

  


The figure seemed about right. “Assuming we pay $500 a head, that gets is seven men,” he said, noting that again, Two Plaits glanced at One Plait.

  


Jackson spoke up, his tone warm. “The Genizaros suffered from a history of slavery and oppression, rejected by their native kin and the Spanish and Americans, too. Yet they have worked to keep alive their own culture and they have created their own community, one that has helped many of us over the decades. For five hundred dollars, they can have a week of my life.”  
  
Tanner grinned. “Or all of it.”  
  
Chris nodded to Jackson, then he looked at Tanner. Tanner sighed, but it was more for show than for real,  
  
“Hell, I wasn't planning on dying with a carpet sweeper in my hand, anyway.”  
  
Chris grinned back, then he looked to the two Natives, who were also grinning. Do you two have names? I like to know who I'm working for.” 

  


Two Plaits introduced himself as Miguel Amadeo, then One Plait as Tomas Agnacio. They shook hands all around.

  


“They'll be back in a week or so?” Chris asked, still holding the gold. 

  


“That is what they said,” Tomas nodded. “But I would not expect them to honor that.” 

  


“Nor would I,” Chris agreed, “not if they are desperate. Reckon getting there sooner is better than later.” He glanced at his watch, noting that it was getting on late in the afternoon. “I need to see about rounding up a few more people. Figure that will take tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. Give me an address and we'll plan on meeting you tomorrow, late afternoon.” 

Tomas reached into one pocket of his flannel shirt and took out a business card. It was worn and smudged with dirt, as if he'd been carrying it for a long time. On the front it read “Tomas Agnacio, Tribal Leader, Lanark Genizaros, Lanark Tribal Center, 101 Mainstreet, Lanark, New Mexico.” Under it was a phone number for the Tribal Center and an email address, at yahoo.com. “One of us – probably both of us – will be there all day. You cannot miss it, though, once you arrive in Lanark.” 

  


Tanner frowned, stepping close to look at the card Chris held. “I thought that was a ghost town,” he said, and Chris wondered how the man knew so much about the area along the Mexico border.

  


Tomas smiled. “It was. And sometimes, during tourist season, it still is.”

  


Tanner smiled back and nodded his understanding.

  


The two Genizaros shook hands around again, then they turned a left. As the door closed behind them, Tanner said, “If they're asking for help from the white man, men like us, they're desperate. But how are we gonna find hired guns for five hundred dollars?  
  
Jackson picked up his beer and finished it off before saying, “I think I know a man who can help.”  
  
Chris grinned, putting the card in one pocket and the gold in another. “I know one, too—if we can get him out of bed.”

  


*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*

  


“ _I'm not sending you in alone. You'll have backup in there, someone I trust, someone who's still with us. You'll know him when you see him.”_

  


“You sure he ain't gonna shoot me?” Tanner asked, looking warily along the hotel's hallway. They had slipped in a side door, avoiding the cops who were still prowling around the main conference rooms. The hotel lobby had been cleared and only the blood on the carpet evidenced the earlier altercation. 

  


“He's not usually confrontational in a situation like this,” Chris answered, though it had been a long while since he'd seen his old partner. He was surprised Buck was still working for the Company – more so because he was surprised some jealous husband hadn't killed him already. But when he had taken a look, covertly, at the hotel's guest register, he'd known immediately who his old boss had sent as his backup. Listening to the conversations of the hotel's female employees had let him now that Buck hadn't changed his ways, and it hadn't taken him long to figure out which of the women attendees to the convention would be targets for his old friend's attentions. 

  


The internet was a magical device for people in their business; he'd managed to check out, via Facebook, the status of the women who were here. The hotel itself was required by law to post the layout of the building with the locations of the fire escapes. Buck preferred the ones that were hidden in shade as much of the morning as possible – and through the process of elimination, there were only two women who fit the bill, this time of the afternoon.

  


One of them was currently in the hotel bar, sitting with a group that included the blonde woman from earlier.

  


“Her name's Marybeth Duncan, and she's in room 518,” Chris said, remembering the tall, buxom red-head he'd seen on Facebook. Just Buck's type. “She's having trouble with her husband's, who's under investigation for mortgage fraud. When she left Chicago for this conference, he was spending the night in jail for drunk driving, and she had refused to bail him out. But they're not separated yet, so you can make it sound like you want to try to make up.” 

  


Tanner shook his head, but he didn't refuse. “If I get shot, be sure to get my gun, will ya? I don't want it getting into the wrong hands.”

  


Chris grinned, finding that he was liking this man. His gut told him that Tanner was on their side, but he wasn't ready to commit fully just yet. The man had access to some advanced weaponry, such as the gun that was now at issue. “Give me five minutes to get in place,” he said. “Then bang on the door.”

  


Tanner nodded and headed off to the stairs. They were all avoiding the main lobby and the elevators.

  


Chris made his way out a side door and then around to the back of the hotel. The evening was getting cool as the sun dropped, but the smells of a hot city were still strong and unpleasant in the air. As he took up position at the foot of the fire escape, he considered the two men with whom he had spent the afternoon – and with whom he was now committed to an expedition to the lower part of the state. Jackson was one of the men he'd come here to find, so this was almost too easy. If his guess was right, Jackson was also off to talk to another of the men currently working for Southwest Tech, an old tech operative named Sanchez. Sanchez and Jackson had left The Company at different times, and hadn't known each other, according to the records. But once they were both at Southwest Tech, they'd become close friends.

  


This was almost too easy, which made Chris worry. Fate, perhaps, or coincidence, but he didn't tend to believe in chance, not this way. The Genizaros were probably in trouble, but he wouldn't be surprised if, instead of the men coming back to get whatever it was that was in a nearby mine – and that was the next internet project for the night – their job had actually been to lure Chris and anyone else who might be sympathetic to their plight – and thus, more likely to have sympathy for The Company, even now, as it was collapsing from within and being destroyed from without – to one place to eliminate them. Or try to convince them to come over to the other side.

  


After all, wasn't that part of what Chris was doing himself?

  


His analysis was interrupted by the clang of the ladder above, and something whistling past and landing with a thud on the asphalt in front of him. A boot. He glanced up in time to see something else falling down toward him – a dark brown suit coat, and right on top of it, a dark blue linen shirt.

  


“Whoa!” someone called, a little desperately, and Chris took a step back as the fire escape came down in front of him, a tall man clinging to it with one hand while trying to pull up his jeans with the other. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a wife-beater t-shirt, both in a strange pale pink. 

  


Same old Buck, Chris thought, with a mixture of annoyance and pleasure. “Afternoon, Buck. Interrupt something?” he asked, leaning against a pillar of the building.

  


Buck looked at him and Chris looked back. His old friend was the same: dark hair that hung in his eyes, deep blue eyes that sparkled no matter the situation, and within a second, a grin that split his angular face in two and showed his big, white teeth.

  


“Chris! I was wondering when in the hell you'd show up!” He stepped in close, giving Chris a big hug. In the distance, Chris noticed a cluster of hotel workers who appeared to be on a break. One of them was smoking and he turned away from them, shaking his head. The two women with him, though, grinned and stared more openly, as if they were enjoying the sight.

  


He pushed Buck away, saying “Easy, big guy. Folks'll talk.”

  


Buck laughed but stepped back. One hand, though, was still on Chris' shoulder. “Just like old times, then, with people going on about us behind our backs. And to our faces! Remember the Halstadt twins, who wanted to get all four of us in the same bed? Boy, those were the days.” He smiled again, differently this time, with a sort of dreaminess that made Chris wince. 

  


“Got a job,” Chris said, looking past Buck to Tanner, who was coming down the alley toward them. 

  


Buck came back to himself, reaching down to finish pulling up his jeans and zipping them. “So I heard! That's why I'm here!”

  


Chris shook his head, annoyed, and said more quietly, “Not that one, another one.” Then more loudly, he said, “You interested?”

  


Buck had always been quick, which was one of the reasons they had worked so well together. “What's it pay?” he said, turning to catch up his shirt and coat. He got them one as they continued to talk.

  


“Five hundred,” Chris answered. 

  


“A day?” Buck said, buttoning his shirt. When Chris did answer, he looked up at him and said with some incredulity, “A week?” 

  


Chris shrugged. “I know it ain't much.”  
  
Buck stepped into his missing boot and asked, “How are the odds?”  
  
Chris grinned, actually amused. This, too, had never changed. “Three-, four-to-one.”  
  
Buck laughed, standing straight and adjusting his coat. “Just our kind of fight. How'd you know I was here?” He said the last part a little more loudly, as Tanner had reached them and had stopped just to Buck's right.  
  
“I make a point of knowing who's in town. Live longer that way.” He shrugged.  
  
Tanner nodded to Buck and asked, “You with us?”  
  
Buck arched one eyebrow as he looked at Chris and asked, “Is he with you?”  
  
Chris nodded, looking from one to the other and wondering what had happened upstairs.  
  
Buck looked once more at Tanner, eying him up and down, then he asked, “There going to be ladies where you're going?”  
  
Chris smiled. “I imagine so.”  
  
Buck grinned widely. “Then I imagine I'm in.”

  


Chris nodded and pushed himself off the building. “Let's go then,” he said, noting how easily the other two fell into step beside him.

  


“Where to?” Buck said, glancing back and up the building. Chris saw him lift a hand and wave, probably to the woman he had just left. 

  


“Down to a bar I know,” Chris said. “Hopefully we'll find a few more people to drag along with us.” 

  


*&*&*&*&*&*&*&

  


“ _It's not just us versus them; there will be new players in the game now, some who have been rejected by both organizations and are looking to get even, some who will simply be taking advantage of the best offer. We can't trust them much, but we have to trust them some. And in some cases, it's better to have them on our side that on the other, even if we can't use them a lot.”_

  


It was all the worst a bar had to offer. Bikers, parolees, sanitation workers, mercenaries. The kind of place where the furniture – such as it was – was screwed into the floor and into the walls then chained in as well, for extra security. There were no toilets in the bathrooms, just holes with cement ledges that were part of the floor, so that no one could rip them out of the wall in a fit of anger. The beer was served in cans or Styrofoam cups, and the highest quality was from the Budweiser Company, proudly touted as 'the King of Beers'. 

  


There was whiskey, though, also served in Styrofoam cups, though they did have a top shelf brand: Rebel Yell. It was what the bartender poured and put on the bar as Chris arrived, leading the other two in. He nodded his appreciation and drank the bourbon in one long drink, by which point in time, Buck had ordered a round of bourbon for each of them and a beer each for him and Tanner.

  


The place was busy, partly because it was late in the afternoon – getting off time – and partly because it was that sort of place, where men came and stayed. It was a place that also lured gamblers, and most of the table had some sort of game going on: poker, the most common, but also dice, drinking games, a roulette wheel in one corner, and a couple of one-armed bandits on the back wall.

  


As the three men settled against the bar, Chris noticed that a nearby table was the loudest, and the game there was little more nontraditional. It appeared to be a variation of darts, though the men playing were using a handguns. Small ones, but handguns, nonetheless. 

  


The man who was currently up to shoot at the bulls-eye appeared to be very drunk and very out of place here. He wore a three piece charcoal and burgundy pinstripe suit with a burgundy tie that was waving back and forth across his chest as he teetered around the floor, trying to find the target. His hair was a chestnut brown that, in the smoky lighting of the bar, seemed to have reddish highlights, and his cheeks and nose seemed flushed with alcohol. Chris noticed a bottle of the best bourbon in the house on the table and wondered who had bought it, the man or the men he was betting with. From the raucous laughter of the other men at the table, he thought it might have been a plan on their part, to lure this man into a set up.

  


But something about the man didn't seem naive, even as he waved the gun around, slurring his words in a strong southern accent.

  


The door to the outside opened, letting in a beam of bright evening light that made many curse, and the man in the suit shout out an insult to the heritage of who ever had, as the Southerner called, “bred such an absolute wretch with no regard to the rules of civilized society.”

  


The wretch in question was Jackson, who was making his way reluctantly through the crowd toward Chris and his men. His expression suggested that the Southerner was far from accurate in his assessment of the qualities of a civilized man, as Jackson was far from impressed with the establishment and its patrons. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked when he finally reached Chris.

  


“Looking to hire a few men,” Chris answered succinctly, gesturing to the bartender for another shot of bourbon. “Question is whether we need two more or three more.” 

  


At that moment, a shot rang out and everyone in the place ducked. The tension didn't last long, as the men at the table with the Southerner burst into laughter and a large stuffed eagle fell onto the bar.

  


“You're paying for that!” the bartender called out to them as the rest of the large room shared the laugh as well. “Fourth time this year,” the bartender snarled as he collected the stuffed bird and put it under the bar. 

  


Jackson drew a deep breath, but Chris noticed that while he was irritated, he wasn't afraid and his hands didn't shake as he picked up the cup and took a sip. After he'd swallowed, he said, “Can't get an answer out of Josiah. He's not convinced that he's the best man for this. He thinks that it's a trap.”

  


“A trap?” Buck asked before Chris could. “What sort of trap?” 

  


Jackson shook his head and sighed, and his answer was barely audible over the Southerner calling out that his shot – bad as it was – was not his fault, as he had been 'encumbered by the debris on the floor'.

  


There was a beer can or two rolling around, Chris noted, but he wasn't surprised when the man reached into one of the pockets on his coat and drew out a wad of bills – and another revolver. This one was smaller, almost a ladies' purse gun. “I will double my bet,” the man said, dropping the money on the bar with the other pot. Then he picked up the bottle of whiskey and took a long pull directly from its mouth. A number of the men at the table added their money to the pot, doubling it quickly.

  


“He thinks that it's a trap to lure him back to the Dark Side, as he calls it. The lure of violence, even in the name of doing good.” Jackson frowned as he watched the Southerner try to aim his pistol at the target. The man's arms seemed to shake and waver, as if he couldn't clearly see the target – which seemed to be the case, but Chris suspected differently. “Says he's afraid that the crows will come for him if he does.” 

  


“Death?” Tanner asked, his tone curious. 

  


Jackson made a sound more like a snort than a laugh. “Him? Doubtful. Not physically. The death of his soul, perhaps. He's got some interesting spiritual ideas.” 

  


At that instant, the Southerner shot the pistol in his hand. Not once, but six times. The room was silent, though most people were watching him. As the echo of the last shot faded, the bartender moved to the end of the bar, staring at the target. “All six, in the center! What a - wow!” 

  


Chris shook his head, grinning, even as the men at the table who had betting with the Southerner started to grumble. Then one, the one who had done the most baiting, called out, “You're awfully sober now.” 

  


The Southerner, who had been wiping off the barrel of the small pistol, said, “Must be the desert air.” He tucked the pistol into a leather case that he drew from his pocket, then put the small set back into the pocket as he reached for the money on the table. 

  


It was then that the Grumbler drew a long knife from a sheath on his belt. The blade flashed as he brought it to the Southerner's chest, the tip nicking the fine knot at the top of the burgundy tie. “We don't take kindly to hustlers, especially ones who look like foreclosing bankers. Let's see how well you can shoot with one eye.” He lifted the knife higher, the tip of it carving a thin line of red into the Southerner's cheek. 

  


The Southerner jerked back but as he did, he brought one knee up into the Grumbler's groin. As the man bent double, the Southerner stepped back out of the way of the knife then brought both of his fists down on the man's head, dropping him to the floor. 

  


Several of the man's associates were now also brandishing weapons. As one of them stepped forward, the bartender drew out a double barrel shotgun and cocked it. The sound was unmistakeable and the room went silent again. “You know better than this!” he yelled. “No shooting in here, not at each other!” 

  


The Southerner didn't wait. As soon as the words were out of the bartender's mouth, he turned and gathered up the bills on the bar corner, stuffing them into the inner pockets of his jacket. “Sorry for the mess,” the Southerner said, throwing several hundreds onto the bar top, in the direction of the bartender.

  


The bartender's eyes widened and he moved quickly to one side, bringing up the shotgun. At the same time, Chris heard a soft click and though the Southerner was still facing the bar, he had a gun in his hand and the barrel of it was coming up, under his arm. He shot it quickly, hitting the hand of one of the Grumbler's friends and causing him to drop a pistol.  
  


The Southerner then turned, holding this new gun out, the smoke drifting from its barrel. He was still pushing money into his pockets, though Chris noticed that he was adding more to the bills he had left on the bar for the bartender. 

  


“Once you're outside of here, you can't take us all,” the Grumbler wheezed, having made it back to his feet but still not able to stand completely upright.  
  


“Perhaps not,” the Southerner agreed, finally moving away from the bar and along it side, towards Chris and his group. “But I will get some of you, so you'd best discuss amongst yourselves which ones of you are going to die.” 

  


He was even with Tanner now, how said softly, “Nice shot, there, under the arm and all.” 

  


Without taking his eyes off the Grumbler and his gang, the Southerner said, equally softly, “Dreadful, actually. I was aiming to kill him.” He took another step backward, bringing himself even with Chris. 

  


“First shot was louder than the other five,” Chris said softly. 

  


The Southerner was in mid step but he hesitated. “What are you suggesting, sir?” he asked, his tone sharp though his voice as soft. 

  


“First shot was a bullet, the next five were blanks.” Chris leaned back against the bar so he could better see the man. 

  


The Southerner finally turned and glanced at him, his hazel eyes appraising Chris as if he were a car that the Southerner was considering for purchase. After a second, the man tilted his head in acknowledgment of the statement and its implications. “I abhor gambling,” he said lightly, “and as such, I leave nothing to chance.” 

  


Chris nodded, returning the honesty. “Looking for some men to help defend a town down near the border. You interested?” 

  


“Who's financing?” he answered quickly. 

  


“The town. Five hundred a man.” 

  


The Southerner snorted. “Five hundred? That would hardly pay for my weapons!” He glanced toward Jackson, then back to Chris. “No, I think not.” 

  


“Reckon you should be leaving town anyway,” Tanner said shortly, picking up on the snub. 

  


The Southerner glanced at him then down to where Chris had pulled the chunk of gold from his pocket, holding it close to his body so that only the Southerner could see it. The man's eyes held on it for longer than they probably should have, and it was with an effort that he finally looked away and back toward the men around the Grumbler. “I shall sleep on your offer,” he said softly. 

  


“Meet us in the alley behind the Westin at dawn,” Chris said, shoving the gold back into his pocket. “If you live that long.” 

  


The Southerner flashed a grin, and Chris saw a gold tooth gleam in the bar light. He turned around, facing the bar and picking up his drink. On either side of him, Tanner, Jackson, and Buck did the same. The didn't need to see the man leave, the resumption of talk, many of them complaints, in the room let them know that the man had left. 

  


The bartender put down his shotgun and gathered the money off the bar. “Round on the house!” he called loudly, and many of the complaints faded as men surged around the bar. 

  


“You serious about him?” Jackson asked over the hubbub. 

  


Chris shrugged, taking advantage of the free drink. “Might need a man with his skills,” he said simply. 

  


“Cheating?” Jackson said, his tone disdainful. 

  


“Scheming,” Chris said. “Convincing people to believe him.” 

  


Jackson shook his head but out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw Buck and Tanner grin at each other. 

  


They spent much of the evening in the bar, looking for other possible guns, but the few that they approached scoffed at the lack of pay. Jackson left around 7, heading to his actual home outside the city, for dinner with his fiancee, Rain, a paramedic and physician's assistant who had chosen to work in the barrio section of town. 

  


“Need to explain to her what I'm doing,” he said. “She won't like it, but then again, I don't like some of what she does, so it works out. See you in the morning. I'll make another call to Josiah, too, see if I can get him to go along.” 

  


Around ten, three men came into the bar who Buck recognized as working for 'the other side'. Chris thought they might have been at the hotel earlier in the day. 

  


Tanner waited until the three had settled at a table, then leaned forward and murmured that he was calling it a night. “Meet y'all in the morning,” he said, pushing away the beer he had been nursing for the past hour. 

  


Chris nodded to him and the young man was gone, fading into the shadows so completely that it was as if he had vanished. 

  


“Well, then,” Buck said, draining the rest of his beer. “Wanna tell me what's going on?” 

  


Chris watched as the newcomers began to attract the attention of the men around them, offering to buy beers and play cards. It wasn't long before they had a group around them, and Chris had little doubt but that they were recruiting. He shook his head, annoyed. “Let's get some food,” he said. “Gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

  


They weren't as subtle as Tanner in leaving the bar, but they didn't advertise themselves either. They didn't talk as they walked, as there were people moving on the streets, so it wasn't until they were settled in a nearby restaurant, burgers and beer ordered. The booth had high backs and Buck put his cell phone on the table and keyed a combination that produced a low frequency hum that covered a signal disruptor, in case someone was trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. 

  


“So what's the score?” Buck said, leaning forward. He kept glancing out, watching the people in the small restaurant, but Chris suspected that it was more to check out the ladies than for protection. “Who's this Tanner guy and what do you know about him? Is he working for them?”

  


Chris shrugged. “No idea. He was one of the fir to step up with they took Jackson at the hotel yesterday afternoon. He knows who they are, the organization, anyway, but he doesn't act as if he has any sympathies for them. Maybe he was one of them and left – he certainly doesn't seem to want to tangle with them. Can you run an id on him?” 

  


Buck grinned at him. “Already done it. Got a good picture of him at the bar,  got in in the system a while ago. Things are slow, though – we don't have a high priority at the moment, not with all the attacks going on on the facilities.  We've lost most of them and the Tech division – such as it is, is working to try to isolate our information to keep it out of the hands of the enemy. That's made it hard to get to any of our own data. To be honest,” he grinned, “I think our research people are using the internet more than they are our own security records. In which case, I'm betting we won't see Tanner at all. He strikes me as someone who's pretty good at being a ghost. Pretty muck like you.”

  


Chris grinned back. “Yeah, that's one of the things I like about him.” The amusement faded though as he thought through what Buck had just said. “We really are pretty much on our own.” 

  


“Old school,” Buck said with a nod. “I can't say I'm crazy about it, but it does have a certain appeal. Gotta go with your gut – which is why you were one of the first to be called back. You used your gut more than protocol, if I remember correctly.” His smile slipped away and he stared at Chris. “Did you ever find them?”

  


The question was a nonsequeter – but then again, it wasn't. This was Buck, after all. Which was why he answered the question, one that he wouldn't have even acknowledged from anyone else. “Not yet.” He looked down at the table, feeling the guilt that he always felt when he thought of Sarah and Adam, of losing them and of not finding the bastards who had killed them. The search for them had driven him out on his own, a quest for vengeance that his superiors wouldn't sanction. For a while, Buck had helped him 'off the record', but eventually, he had been forced to make a choice. 

  


Chris had made it for him, leaving one night with no warning and no 'goodbye'. He could vanish when he wanted to, and that's what he had done. It was the kindest thing he could have done for Buck, though he doubted his old friend and partner would see it that way. 

  


“We can still - “Buck started, but Chris cut him off.

  


“Got to do this first. I can't hunt those bastards and save the world at the same time.” 

  


Buck grinned at that. “Makes you wonder where the hell all those super heroes are now, don't it. Why the hell they ain't in the trenches with the rest of us, making this right.” 

  


“Thought I read something about them helping out in New York – wasn't it one of them who figured out the infiltration?”

  


“Yep. Seems it went all the way to the top. But it was too late – they activated before it could be stopped.” Buck shook his head and drank the rest of his beer in one long gulp. “Hard to believe they've been among us all this time. Makes you wonder who you can trust.” He signaled the waitress and pointed to his beer. Even as he smiled at her, his voice was solemn. “Glad you're helping here, Chris. I've missed you, and I know I can trust you.” 

  


Chris nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “Reckon I think the same of you,” he said. “So what do you know about this town and these people, the Genizaros?”

  


Buck shrugged. “Looked 'em up on the internet. They're descendents of Native Americans and the Mexican and American people who kept them as slaves. Many of them tried to hold on to their native heritage through the generations, but their own tribes wouldn't take them back, especially after the US government forced so many of the tribes onto reservations. They've bonded together over the past century to create their own tribe, if you want to call it that. The US government hasn't recognized them, but some states, like this one, have, though they haven't given them state lands for reservations. Reckon that's why they're in Lanark; it's an old ghost town. I've got Research checking the property records, though I bet it was pretty cheap to buy.”

  


“Anything on the mines?” Chris asked, then neither of them spoke as the waitress returned with another beer and their burgers.

  


“Thanks, darling,” Buck smiled as she left. He watched her walk away, appreciating her backside with his eyes even as he answered Chris' question. “Gold mine was there, been dead about a hundred years, according to the internet. Makes me wonder which Genizaros were there in the past, but it makes sense that some probably were, at least in the late 1800s. Might be them who worked for the original mine owners. Copper mining went on in the early 1900s, then, when those mines played out in the mid-twentieth century, last mining was uranium. There was a lot of hoopla, though, between the US and Mexico about who owned the ore, and then a lot of flack from the people of El Paso who weren't interested in the radiation, so those mines have been closed for about a decade. Most likely, that's what our friends are looking to buy.”

  


Chris nodded. He had already made that assumption, even without the knowledge of the mining in the area. The idea of acquiring nuclear materials would appeal to – well, anyone wanting world domination. “And they think that the Genizaros will be able to get into the mines to get the ore, as their gold mines appear to be close to the uranium mines. The big thing would be the danger of extracting the ore – the radiation.”

  


“I'm guessing that that's why their blackmailing the Genizaros. They'll be less scared of the radiation than of losing their families.” Buck's smile was gone now, and his grip on his fork was tight enough to make his knuckles white. “So we're going to protect those people because it's the right thing to do – and because it will give us some insight into what our enemies are planning.”

  


“And maybe,” Chris said, squirting mustard on his hamburger bun before putting the sandwich together, “keeping them from getting what they want.”

  


“And finding us some new hires?” Buck added, his good humor returning. “I like the look of that gambler. We could use someone like him.”

  


“You running an id on him, too?” Chris asked, though he knew the answer already.

  


“Yep. And on the guys in the bar – did you see them at the hotel earlier today? I heard that was quite a sight to see, by the way, you and Tanner taking on a gang of those thugs.” He picked up his burger and waved it as he said, “I really hate I missed that!” 

  


Chris grinned. “I have to admit, it felt pretty good.” 

  


Buck nodded, his eyes soft. “Glad to hear it, Chris. Really glad to have you back.” 

  


“Only for this, don't get any ideas. I still got a score to settle.” He took a bite of his burger, appreciating the taste of it. Or perhaps it was the taste of the day. Whichever the case, though, he knew it was temporary, as he had just told Buck. Just until this was done and he'd settled his own score with his former boss. 

  


*&*&*&*&*&*

temporary end:more coming.  Check the series "Larabee Iniative"  


  


  


**Author's Note:**

> There are references to the events of Marvel media-verses storyline, in which Shield has been infiltrated and effectively destroyed by its long-time enemy Hydra; the timeline of events is based on what happened through the Avengers movies and the single-hero movies (Captain America, Ironman, et cetera) and the ABC television show Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.


End file.
